Too Good to Be True

“It’s alive!” Margaret said.

Mémé ignored her, gazing at me with disparaging, rheumy eyes. “I never had trouble finding a man. Men loved me. I was quite a beauty in my day, you know.”

“And you still are,” I said. “Look at you! How do you do it, Mémé? You don’t look a day over a hundred and ten.”

“Please, Grace,” my father muttered wearily. “It’s gas on a fire.”

“Laugh if you want, Grace. At least my fiancé never threw me over.” Mémé knocked back the rest of her Manhattan and held out her glass to Dad, who took it obediently.

“You don’t need a man,” Mom said firmly. “No woman does.” She leveled a significant look at my father.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Dad snapped.

“It means what it means,” Mom said, her voice loaded.

Dad rolled his eyes. “Stuart, let’s get another round, son. Grace, I stopped by your house today and you really need new windows. Margaret, nice job on the Bleeker case, honey.” It was Dad’s way to jam in as much into a conversation as possible, sort of get things over with so he could ignore my mother (and his). “And, Grace, don’t forget about Bull Run next weekend. We’re Confederates.”

Dad and I belonged to Brother Against Brother, the largest group of Civil War reenactors in three states. You’ve seen us…we’re the weirdos who dress up for parades and stage battles in fields and at parks, shooting each other with blanks and falling in delicious agony to the ground. Despite the fact that Connecticut didn’t see a whole lot of Civil War action (alas), we fanatics in Brother Against Brother ignored that inconvenient fact. Our schedule started in the early spring, when we’d stage a few local battles, then move on to the actual sites throughout the South, joining up with other reenactment groups to indulge in our passion. You’d be amazed at how many of us there were.

“Your father and those idiot battles,” Mom muttered, adjusting Mémé’s collar. Mémé had apparently fallen deeply asleep or died…but no, her bony chest was rising and falling. “Well, I’m not going, of course. I need to focus on my art. You’re coming to the show this week, aren’t you?”

Margaret and I exchanged wary looks and made noncommittal sounds. Mom’s art was a subject best left untouched.

“Grace!” Mémé barked, suddenly springing back to life. “Get out there! Kitty’s going to throw the bouquet! Go! Go!” She turned her wheelchair and began ramming it into my shins, as ruthless as Ramses bearing down on the fleeing Hebrew slaves.

“Mémé! Please! You’re hurting me!” I yanked my legs out of the way, which didn’t stop her.

“Go! You need all the help you can get!”

Mom rolled her eyes. “Leave her alone, Eleanor. Can’t you see she’s suffering enough? Grace, honey, you don’t have to go if it makes you sad. Everyone will understand.”

“I’m fine,” I said loudly, running a hand over my uncontrollable hair, which had burst the bonds of bobby pins. “I’ll go.” Because damn it, if I didn’t, it would be worse. Poor Grace, look at her, she’s just sitting there like a dead possum in the road, can’t even get out of her chair. Besides, Mémé’s chair was starting to leave marks on my dress.

Out onto the dance floor I went, as excited as Anne Boleyn on her way to the gallows. I tried to blend in with the other sheep, standing in the back where I wouldn’t really have a chance of catching the bouquet. “Cat Scratch Fever” came booming over the stereo—so classy—and I couldn’t suppress a snicker.

Then I saw Andrew. Looking right at me, guilty as sin. His date was nowhere in sight. My heart lurched.

I knew he was here, of course. Him coming was my idea. But seeing him, knowing he was with another woman today in their first appearance as a couple, made my hands sweat, my stomach turn to ice. Andrew Carson was, after all, the man I thought I’d marry. The man I came within three weeks of marrying. The man who left me because he fell in love with someone else.

A couple of years ago, at Cousin Kitty’s second wedding, Andrew had come as my date. We’d been together for a while, and when it was bouquet toss time then, I’d gone up more or less happily, pretending to be embarrassed but with the smug contentment of a steady boyfriend. I didn’t catch the bouquet, and when I left the dance floor, Andrew had slung his arm around my shoulder. “I thought you could’ve worked a little harder out there,” he’d said, and I remembered the thrilling rush those words had caused.

Now he was here with his new girlfriend. Natalie of the long, straight, blond hair. Natalie of the legs that went on forever. Natalie the architect.

Natalie, my much adored younger sister, who was understandably lying low at this wedding.

Kitty tossed the bouquet. Her sister, my cousin Anne, caught it as planned and rehearsed, no doubt. Torture time over. But, no. Kitty spied me, picked up her skirts and hustled over. “It will be your turn soon, Grace,” she announced loudly. “You holding up okay?”

“Sure,” I said. “It’s déjà vu all over again, Kitty! Another spring, another one of your weddings.”

“You poor thing.” She gave my arm a firm squeeze, smug sympathy dripping out of her, glanced at my bangs (yes, they’d grown out in the fifteen years that had passed since she’d cut them) and went back to her groom and the three kids from her first two marriages.

THIRTY-THREE MINUTES LATER, I decided I’d been brave long enough. Kitty’s reception was in full swing, and while the music was lively and my feet were itching to get out there and show the crowd what a rumba was supposed to look like, I decided to head for home. If there was a single, good-looking, financially secure, emotionally stable man here, he was hiding under a table. One quick pit stop and I’d be on my way.

I pushed open the door, took a quick and horrifying look in the mirror—even I didn’t even know it was possible for my hair to frizz that much, holy guacamole, it was nearly horizontal—and started to push open a stall door when I heard a small noise. A sad noise. I peeked under the door. Nice shoes. Strappy, high heels, blue patent leather.

“Um…is everything okay?” I asked, frowning. Those shoes looked familiar.

“Grace?” came a small voice. No wonder the shoes looked familiar. My younger sister and I had bought them together, last winter.

“Nat? Honey, are you okay?”

There was a rustle of material; then my sister pushed open the door. She tried to smile, but her clear blue eyes were wet with silvery tears. I noted her mascara didn’t deign to run. She looked tragic and gorgeous, Ilsa saying goodbye to Rick at the Casablanca airport.

“What’s wrong, Nat?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s nothing….” Her mouth wobbled. “It’s fine.”

I paused. “Is it something to do with Andrew?”

Natalie’s good front faltered. “Um…well…I don’t think it’s going to work between us,” she said, her voice cracking a little, giving her away. She bit her lip and looked down.

“Why?” I asked. Relief and concern battled in my heart. Granted, it sure wouldn’t kill me if Nat and Andrew didn’t work out, but it wasn’t like Natalie to be melodramatic. In fact, the last time I’d seen her cry was when I’d left for college twelve years ago.

“Um…it’s just a bad idea,” she whispered. “But it’s fine.”

“What happened?” I asked. The urge to strangle Andrew flared in my gut. “What did he do?”

“Nothing,” she assured me hastily. “It’s just…um…”

“What?” I asked again, more forcefully this time. She wouldn’t look at me. Ah, dang it all. “Is it because of me, Nat?”

She didn’t answer.

I sighed. “Nattie. Please answer me.”

Her eyes darted at me, then dropped to the floor again. “You’re not over him, are you?” she whispered. “Even though you said you were…I saw your face out there, at the bouquet toss, and oh, Grace, I’m so sorry. I should never have tried—”

“Natalie,” I interrupted, “I’m over him. I am. I promise.”

She gave me a look loaded with such guilt and misery and genuine anguish that the next words came out of my mouth without my being fully aware of them. “The truth is, Nat, I’m seeing someone.”

Oops. Hadn’t really planned on saying that, but it worked like a charm. Natalie blinked up at me, two more tears slipping down her petal-pink cheeks, hope dawning on her face, her eyes widening. “You are?” she said.

“Yes,” I lied, snatching a tissue to dab her face. “For a few weeks now.”

Nat’s tragic expression was fading. “Why didn’t you bring him tonight?” she asked.

“Oh, you know. Weddings. Everyone gets all excited if you come with someone.”

“You didn’t tell me,” she said, a slight frown creasing her forehead.

“Well, I didn’t want to say anything until I knew it would be worth mentioning.” I smiled again, warming to the idea —just like old times—and this time, Nat smiled back.

“What’s his name?” she asked.

I paused for the briefest second. “Wyatt,” I answered, remembering my tire-changing fantasy. “He’s a doctor.”

CHAPTER TWO

LET ME JUST SAY THAT THE REST of the night went a lot better for everyone. Natalie towed me back to the table where the rest of our family sat, insisting that we hang out together a little, as she had been too nervous to actually speak to me yet this day.

“Grace has been seeing someone!” she announced softly, eyes shining. Margaret, who had been painfully listening to Mémé describe her nasal polyps, snapped to attention. Mom and Dad stopped mid-bicker to pelt me with questions, but I stuck with my “it’s still a little early to talk about it” story. Margaret raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. Out of the corner of my eye, I scanned for Andrew—he and Natalie had been keeping a bit of a distance from each other out of concern for my tender feelings. He wasn’t in range.

“And just what does this person do for a living?” Mémé demanded. “He’s not one of those impoverished teachers, is he? Your sisters managed to find jobs that pay a decent wage, Grace. I don’t know why you can’t.”

“He’s a doctor,” I said, taking a sip of the gin and tonic the waiter brought over.

“What kind, Pudding?” Dad asked.

“A pediatric surgeon,” I answered smoothly. Sip, sip. Hopefully, the flush on my face could be attributed to my cocktail and not lying.

“Ooh,” Nat sighed, her face breaking into an angelic smile. “Oh, Grace.”

“Wonderful,” Dad said. “Hold on to this one, Grace.”

“She doesn’t need to hold on to anything, Jim,” Mom snapped. “Honestly, you’re her father! Do you really need to undermine her this way?” Then they were off and running in another argument. How nice that Poor Grace was finally off the list of things to worry about!

I TOOK A CAB HOME, claiming a misplaced cell phone and a pressing need to call my wonderful doctor boyfriend. I also managed to avoid speaking directly with Andrew. Pushing Natalie and Andrew out of my head à la Scarlett O’ Hara—I’ll think about that tomorrow— I focused instead on my new imaginary boyfriend. Good thing my tire had blown out a few weeks ago, or I wouldn’t have been nearly so quick on my feet.

How nice it would’ve been if Wyatt, pediatric surgeon, were a real guy. If he’d been a good dancer, too, even if it was just a little turning box step. If he could’ve charmed Mémé and asked Mom about her sculptures and not cringed when she described them. If he was a golfer like Stuart and the two guys made plans for a morning on the links. If he just happened to know a little bit about the Civil War. If he occasionally broke off midsentence when he was talking because he looked at me and simply forgot what he was saying. If he was here to lead me upstairs, unzip this uncomfortable dress and shag me silly.